Unseasonable seasons and forbidden pasta

I have always questioned how "unseasonable" any weather can actually be, considering that seasons themselves are pretty loosely defined, and weather doesn’t much act based on four equal divisions of the time our planet spends orbiting the sun.  That said, I would classify the weather we’re having in Pittsburgh as "unseasonable."  It is somewhere between 67.3 and 72 degrees Fahrenheit, extremes in polling from the various weather sources I must consult to achieve maximum data distribution in order to holistically divine the Actual Temperature (AT).  I wouldn’t consider it unseasonable during certain other seasons, it’s just that not too many days ago we were easily below the temperature range loosely encapsulated by the bookends of 28 and 35 degrees Fahrenheit.  If I perk my ears up and allow the tiny hairs on my arms to reach full extension, I can almost sense the breath of winter’s dying moments on the air, the foretelling of some great cataclysm, all cold and dubiously frictive.

The notable springliness notwithstanding, the day has thus far been rather droll.  I think the course went something like wake up -> get soda -> get high -> play Peggle -> watch NCAA tournament playoff game between Oklahoma and Iowa from 1988 on the Big 10 network which we inexplicably get in our cable line up -> get shower -> get high -> get to work.  I am only noting the frequency of my mental alterations for posterity’s sake; marking the lines on my doorframe to track my height.  Unfortunately the only data I can provide prior to this textual polling is "you grew a lot" and this practically random account will merely have to exist as it does.

Here I sit then, just the same as most other days, at work.  They fired a man here the other day who held the job I want.  I think I might be claiming the hours he has vacated, which would put me up to something like "full-time."  The hours matter less than the money they’ll get me, and as I continue to ignore the fact that my life will inextricably change in roughly 15 to 22 days, I approach this change in work hours as well.  Full-time hours will buy a lot of okonomiyaki or a lot of pain-erasing substances (and hopefully a newly-steeled resolve). 

On Monday evening I brought a can of Chef Boyardee to work.  They have the pull-tab lids now, so you’re basically crazy not to open them things when it’s most convenient, and it most certainly was convenient entering the evening stretch.  I scrounged up a spoon in the aged recesses of some metal drawer, past wood shavings and forgotten triplicate payroll forms.  It still worked, and handily–I had dispatched the can during an amount of time somewhere around sitcom-duration.  It tasted so much better right out of the can than it ever does from a bowl; secret vaults of flavor unlock their doors when you know you could be caught at any second, so savagely enjoying such forbidden pleasures.  When it was gone I went in for the kill, scooping up the tiny bits of crackermeal-enhanced beef and then evaluating whether it was worth it to push for more, to scrape even the viscous remnants of sauce and pasta from the inner ridges of the can.  It’d had enough and whimpered tenderly, its resources tapped.  A swift disposal would not have been enough.  I tucked it under some foam packaging, gave it a tiny salute.

Tonight there is only a Coke bottle filled with water ever so cola-tinged after being refilled, and apparently an Italian sandwich my coworker brought to work and forgot to eat.  She urged me to eat it over the phone, nearly thirty minutes after her departure.  I imagine that is why we are keeping her, and why the guy that ate his sandwiches doesn’t work here anymore.